


The World, Blind

by forensicleaf



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Discussions of Murder, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Gun Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Irondad, Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Pre-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Revelations, even if this isn't the happiest of fics, spideyson, we're living in that happy oblivious slice of time fellas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 06:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20466476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forensicleaf/pseuds/forensicleaf
Summary: It freezes the breath in his lungs, short-circuiting his brain in a rush of fear. His heart picks up its tempo, hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape — like it’s suddenly painfully aware of his impending doom and is trying to cram a lifetime of beats into mere moments.He should say something. Anything.Use your words, Parker. There are a thousand things he wants to say, a thousand things he’s never gotten the chance to, and every single one of them dies on his tongue. Peter can’t breathe, can’t move. He’s paralysed in complete, abject terror.“This is for Sarah, youfreak.”





	The World, Blind

As evenings go, it’s been a slow one.

Scratch that, it’s been a slow week. Peter thought New York was supposed to be the city that never sleeps, but it sure seems like every bad guy from Queens to Hell’s Kitchen has taken up hibernation considering the lack of action lately.

For the commissioner’s crime statistics, it’s great; for Peter and his rising levels of boredom, not so much. He’s made do with retrieving Frisbees and balls from fire escapes, and mediating disputes over who stole whose parking space, and giving directions — _so_ many directions, seriously, it’s like the whole world has forgotten that Google Maps is a thing — but at this point, he’s itching for something a little more exciting. As much as he loves the ‘kitten rescuing’ side of the gig, as Mr Stark has annoyingly taken to calling it, it evidently isn’t going to help him get taken seriously. It isn’t why he’s really out here.

He heaves a sigh, climbing to his to his feet and letting his toes wiggle over the edge of the building he’s spent the last half hour perched on the ledge of, watching and listening to absolutely _nothing_ happening. 

The city is a living, breathing organism below him, cars honking and streetlights flickering to life as the last of the sun disappears beneath the horizon. He takes it all in, takes a deep breath…

And leaps.

The wind is biting, even through the suit. It snatches away the exhilarated whoop Peter can’t contain as he falls, carrying it away before he even hears it. He throws an arm out, depressing the button on his palm and letting loose a web. He feels the air shoot out of his lungs as the line tugs taught, and grins.

This, at least, never gets old.

“C’mon, c’mon, New York. Give me something,” he murmurs into the night.

And for once, to Peter’s complete surprise, New York answers.

“Get off of me! Get — help! Help me!” 

Peter’s head swivels lightening-quick. It’s a man’s voice. It’s coming from his left, and he’s altering his course mid-swing before he really has a chance to think about it. Now that he’s tuned in, he can hear the sound of an accompanying scuffle and he picks up the pace, feeling the adrenaline flood his veins as he draws closer. 

He skims a rooftop, dropping down over the ledge and onto the highest outstretch of fire escape that juts out between buildings. He looks down, barely supressing a groan when he realises he’s looking down into an alley — of _course_ it’s an alley — but the lack of enthusiasm for the setting is eclipsed by the urgency of the scene unfolding within it.

There are two men below him locked in a struggle — one tall with lanky dark hair, the other short and stocky and thinning on top. It’s difficult to tell who the aggressor is. It’s dark, and both men seem to be giving as good as they’re getting. Peter thinks it might be Stocky, but turns out he’s wrong, because in that moment, the guy opens his mouth and, in the same voice that drew Peter to the alley, yells —

“Help!” 

Peter’s learning how to be better about evaluating situations before diving in. He finds himself relying more and more on himself and his own judgement every day, but just to be safe he still says, “Lay it out for me, Karen. Bullet points.” 

And he means to listen to what she says — honestly, he does — but all he hears is _weapons_ before he sees the flash of silver where Lanky’s hand swings out, sees the light glinting off of the blade in his hand, and all thought of careful contemplation goes out the window. Peter throws himself over the iron railings and down down down to the grimy floor below. 

He catches Lanky’s upswing with a web to the back of the hand, yanking backwards as he lands light and springy a few feet away. The blade narrowly misses its intended target of Stocky’s stomach, but it _does_ miss. Peter caught it in time. 

“Not cool, man. Knives take lives. But I guess you knew that already, huh?” 

It’s almost comical how the guy looks down at his hand in bewilderment, then up to Peter, confusion giving way to fear faster than the flick of a switch — _almost, _that is, if it weren’t for the fact that this is the same man who had been about to get all stab-happy on some poor dude just going about his day. 

Well, that was a mistake. 

And from the guy’s expression, he knows it. 

“Fuck off,” he slurs, slashing wild and panicked at the webbing that’s attaching his hand to Peter’s. It’s useless: that switchblade will do a whole lot of damage to a person in less than a second, but it’ll take a whole lot longer to put a dent in oxidised web-fluid. There’s a reason Peter also invented solvent.

“You know, I’d love to. Honestly, I would. But here you are, waving that thing around, and what kind of friendly neighbourhood Spider-man would I be if I didn’t shut you down? I got a rep to maintain.”

It’s a reasonable response in the face of vitriol, Peter thinks, but muggers aren’t renowned for their diplomacy — particularly ones who are drunk, or high, or whatever’s going on with this guy that’s making his eyes roll all over the place — so all Peter’s words do is act like a red rag to a bull. A bull who stops slashing at webbing and decides to start slashing at Peter.

“He said I could have it!" the man screams. "He _said_—”

“Sure he did, pal. Just — whoa, okay. Just—”

The knife flashes towards Peter’s face. He dodges left, dodges right. Left again. It’s a dance of little effort, but it _is _irritating.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

A roundhouse to the stomach sends the guy stumbling back into the wall, and a quick fire of webbing secures him there. Another dampens the steady stream of curse words spewing from his mouth.

“Wait there,” Peter says to the indignant glare he gets in return. He turns back to the victim, who seems to be holding up pretty well, all things considered. He’s looking way calmer than most usually do in these situations, but then, shock can do weird things to people — Peter’s seen fully-grown adults forget their own name before.

He steps forward, wary of spooking the guy. “You okay, man?”

The guy nods, staring at Peter with wide eyes, though not with fear: Peter can hear the man’s heart beating rapidly in his chest, exhilarated. A Spider-man fan, then. Peter gets them from time to time. It’s a nice change of pace from the people who scream in his face for trying to help them or tell him to mind his own business, even if he still doesn’t quite know how to deal with the attention.

He’s still feeling buzzed from the confrontation, and that heightened sense for danger he’s got hasn’t managed to calm all the way down yet, so it’s a conscious effort to stop himself from being all twitchy as he approaches the guy further, stopping as he goes to pick up the guy’s wallet from where it was dropped in the scuffle.

“Here,” Peter says, handing it over, and trying not to let the disappointment he feels that this was all over money — _again_ — colour his voice. The man doesn’t even look at it as he takes it and slots it into his back pocket, eyes still fixed on Peter.

“You’re Spider-man.”

“That’s me. Here to help” Peter says, with a goofy wave that immediately makes him want to disappear into the floor. Honestly, why is he like this? He can mouth off for days in a fight, but the instant someone isn’t trying to squish him like a bug he turns into a cartoon character. He rubs at the warmth that spreads across back of his neck, feels his face flush under the mask.

The guy seems unfazed by Peter’s dorkiness, though. “It’s a dangerous world,” he says. “Someone’s got to.”

“Uh, right.” Peter nods. “Yeah. Exactly.” This guy gets it, even if he _is_ a little intense. “Speaking of… You umm, you probably want to call the cops soon. That webbing will last for a while, but their response time isn’t always the best, so…”

“Well then it’s real lucky you were swinging by, huh?” the man says. His teeth flash. 

Peter rubs his neck. Shrugs. “It’s really…”

He trails off as the warmth on his neck intensifies. There’s a hum at the base of his skull, a pulsing down between his shoulder blades, a prickle across his skin. _A warning. _He rolls his shoulders, bringing a hand up once again to the back of his neck, rubbing at where the sensation is strongest as he turns to look behind him. The lanky guy is still where he left him, webbed to the wall, and… _ludicrously_, now snoring, so definitely not a threat. 

_Huh. Then what…?_

“…no problem,” Peter finishes slowly, flicking his eyes up to scan the fire escapes and the edges of the roofs. He searches the shadows above him, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He finds nothing. 

_Weird._

The guy’s voice brings him back down to the ground.

“I knew you’d show up sooner or later.” 

The prickle spikes into pain. Peter’s head whips round to find himself looking down the barrel of a gun, only inches from his face. 

His mind goes blank. 

Pure instinct is all that saves him from a bullet in his brain. 

He darts to the side as the gun goes off in an explosion of noise — too loud, too close. Lights explode behind his eyes. A burning streak of pain carves a path across his scalp, and he staggers, trying to get his bearings as the world spins around him, head ringing with the echoes of the blast. 

There’s blood in his eye and blood in his ear and he can’t see and _oh my god he’s just been shot._ Karen confirms this, advising immediate medical attention. 

_Yeah, no shit._

A blob of colour rushes at him, and Peter hits out half-blind, feeling his hand connect with the gun as it swings towards him again. It falls to the ground with a dull clatter. 

“What are you _doing?!_” 

The man doesn’t answer him. Weapon lost, angry, he barrels into Peter, his weight forcing Peter back until his head hits the alley wall with a sharp clack. For a second he’s knocked senseless, then a pair of meaty hands wrap around his throat and Peter snaps back to himself. 

He shoves the other man hard, probably harder than he should, but he’s freaking the hell out, disoriented. He dimly hears an _oof__! _and a thud over the ringing in his ears, and fires a quick burst of webbing in the same direction, then fires another for good measure. 

“Karen! Karen, did I get him? I can’t see, I can’t —“ 

Dizziness plagues him. He’s thrown off-kilter by the lingering damage to his hearing from the close range of the shot and his head is spinning enough that he almost topples over as he whirls, looking for a way out. 

“My sensors are damaged, Peter. I’m sorry. I can’t tell.” 

His breaths are coming out in harsh pants. He’s trying not to panic. He’s failing pretty badly. This random dude has just tried to_ kill_ him. 

“Which — which way is out? Help me.” 

He can’t _see. _There’s blood dripping into his eye and soaking the lens of his mask. His vision is blurring. Every point of light is a strobing firework, colours bleeding into each other like some kind of nightmarish watercolour. 

_Shit. SHIT. _

He needs to get out of here. _Now._

Peter stumbles forwards, feeling like he’s in one of those fairground fun houses — the ones where the floor is all uneven and peppered with side-scrolling walkways that tangle your feet underneath you as you try to get from one side to the other. He’d braved one with Ben once, when he was no older than eight, laughing and stumbling until he’d tripped and broken his glasses. 

This is much less fun. 

He throws an arm out, barely catching himself as his shoulder bounces off a dumpster. Had that been by the entrance to the alley, or further in? He can’t remember. He can’t tell which direction he’s moving in — just that he’s moving. _Away_ from the guy that’s trying to kill him. He drags his feet forward, hands feeling along the wall with urgency. 

_He’s trying to kill me. He’s trying to KILL me. _

The thought races through his panicked mind over and over like a mantra, as concerning as the question it raises. 

_ Why? _

The situation doesn’t allow for any more time contemplating that question: it’s forgotten in a surge of light-headedness — strong enough that Peter has to pause, breathing hard and waiting for it to pass. His suit sticks uncomfortably to his neck and shoulder on his right side, warm and wet against his skin. 

_Head wounds bleed a lot, _he dizzily tells himself; as if that simple fact makes the amount of blood he’s losing any less serious. He should probably be applying pressure, but at this point using anything less than two hands to maintain his balance is a pipe dream. Neurons are firing chaotically through his body. His spidey-sense is going haywire. It’s thrumming like it has its own heartbeat, warning him that he’s still very much in danger. But he’s having a hard enough time keeping track of which way is up; let alone which way he should be looking out. 

He figures it out a second too late. 

“_Fucking mutie scum.”_

A kick to the back of his knee sends him sprawling to the ground, palms smacking the concrete hard as he lands. The air leaves his lungs in a whoosh, and Peter blinks as the pavement tilts dangerously below him, his vision greying in and out at the edges like the ebb and flow of the tide. 

He feels the hot roll of nausea in his stomach, a cold sweat prickling across his skin as he tries to steady himself. The side of his head throbs in time to the panicked pounding of his heart. 

_Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Come on, Spider-man._

He surges up, throwing his arm out in a sloppy punch. It’s slow, uncoordinated, and the man easily avoids it, driving a savage fist of his own into the side of Peter’s face. Normally, it would barely do a thing; as it is, an explosion of pain bursts across Peter’s cheek, and he falls in a crumpled heap, dazed. 

He can feel himself losing his grip on consciousness. His head feels like a balloon tethered to his body by a flimsy piece of string — like it could just float away at any moment. He tries to fold his limbs underneath him, tries to get up, to run, to _fight, _body refusing to give in even though his brain is screaming enough is enough. 

He’s never been that good at doing what he’s told.

He lays his palms flat against the ground… 

…and stiffens at the cold press of steel against the back of his neck. 

It freezes the breath in his lungs, short-circuiting his brain in a rush of fear. His heart picks up its tempo, hammering against his ribs like it’s trying to escape — like it’s suddenly painfully aware of his impending doom and is trying to cram a lifetime of beats into mere moments. 

He should say something. Anything._ Use your words, Parker. _There are a thousand things he wants to say, a thousand things he’s never gotten the chance to, and every single one of them dies on his tongue. Peter can’t breathe, can’t move. He’s paralysed in complete, abject terror. 

“This is for Sarah, you fucking _freak._” 

The gun pushes in harder, and Peter’s arms shake with the effort not to collapse to the floor. He’s lifted a fucking building off his back, but somehow the muzzle at the base of his skull is heavier than all those tonnes of concrete. His eyes dart around his surroundings desperately. _Think, Parker. Think. _He can’t. His whole being is focused on the cold metal pushed up against his neck, yet somehow the thought _execution style _slips through the crippling haze. 

_Oh God_. He’s going to die in this dirty alleyway, not even sure what he did to deserve it, surrounded by trash and the smell of human waste. Shot like a dog in the street. 

He’s afraid. 

_I don’t want to die._

He squeezes his eyes shut, unable to bear the thought of seeing his death as it comes. Unable to do anything to stop it. His eyes burn. 

_May. I’m so sorry, May. I’m sorry. I’m—_

A high-pitched whine splits through the night, piercing and sharp.

The sound unlocks Peter's frozen limbs, and in the second it takes him to recognise it for what it is, he’s already rolling across the floor.

The gun goes off. Peter feels the bullet disturb the air by his face, so close it is to hitting him. The whining crests and disperses in a pulse of energy that rattles the stack of empty beer bottles by Peter’s head. From his position sprawled on the ground, he looks up just in time to see the man get blasted into the alley wall. He hits it hard, then slides to the floor in a heap and doesn’t get up, out cold. 

Then Iron Man strides into Peter’s line of sight, faceplate retracting to reveal a livid-looking Tony Stark. 

Peter smiles weakly, even though he knows Mr Stark can’t see it, obscured as it is by his mask. “Hey Mr Stark,” he mumbles, pretty sure he’s about to pass out, and he must do for a second, because the next thing he knows there are hands on his shoulders, and Mr Stark’s face is hovering right above his, looking very, very worried. 

“Peter!” Mr Stark gives him an urgent shake, and the jostling aggravates the aching in his head, making him gasp as he blinks rapidly. 

“Ah! Stop. _Stop_.” 

Mr Stark lets go of him like he’s been burned. “Sorry. Kid, you — you disappeared on me for a minute there.”

Peter swallows. With shaking hands he rolls the mask to sit just below his eyes. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, trying to quell the rising urge to vomit all over Mr Stark’s shiny metal boots. The right side of his head feels like someone went at it with a mallet.

Or, y’know, a fucking _gun._

“Eyes open, kid. Just ‘cause I can’t see them doesn’t mean I can’t tell you’re trying to catch Zs.”

The tone leaves no room for argument. Peter complies, though he does so with confusion: he hadn’t realised his eyes were closed in the first place. He opens them to find Mr Stark staring at him with furrowed brows and concerned eyes.

“There you go. You with me?” Mr Stark asks.

“I — I, um — yeah.” Peter’s mouth is dry. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, blowing out a hard breath at the dizziness it invokes. Mr Stark offers a hand, and Peter takes it, lets himself be manoeuvred so he’s resting back against the wall. The pounding in his head sends little stabs of pain to his eyes, and he squeezes them closed for a second — _only_ a second this time. “Ugh. My head hurts.” 

“I’ll bet.” Mr Stark’s face is pinched as he takes Peter’s chin in his hand and gently turns his head to the side. He winces, eyeing the jagged stripe of split skin above Peter’s ear. “Jesus Christ.It’s all or nothing with you, isn’t it?” 

“Ow,” Peter says, feeling the skin pull at the edges of the wound. The run-off of adrenaline is quick and intense, and without it there as a buffer, he’s made painfully aware of just how _much_ the wound actually hurts. He feels tired. He feels drained. He feels like he could sink into the floor and sleep for a week.

“_Ow_ is right. You’re lucky that asshole is a lousy shot.” 

He feels… he feels…

He can’t breathe.

Mr Stark’s words punch the air out of his lungs. His chest tightens as realisation sets in in a dizzying rush, the world narrowing down until it’s like Peter is seeing it through the eye of a needle. Suddenly the alley feels very small. 

“He was — he almost —“ 

His teeth are chattering. He starts to shake. 

_He was going to kill me._

Peter almost _died. _He was almost _murdered_ in cold blood. Snuffed out like his life didn’t mean a thing. 

“Oh my god,” he gasps. “Oh my—” 

He can’t _breathe_. He’s hyperventilating, air sawing in and out of his lungs so fast his head starts to spin. His vision warps. He thinks he might be dying for real.

Dimly, he registers the edge of panic in Mr Stark’s voice, but it’s secondary to his own, rising with every gasp that feels smaller of air that feels thinner. “Whoa, kid, you gotta — _Pete. _Oh man, here we go.”

There’s a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay.” Mr Stark says. “You’re okay.” He presses his hand firmly to Peter’s chest, over his racing heart. “Feel that? Going about a million miles a minute, but still going. You’re fine. Breathe.” 

And somehow, it helps. The touch is grounding. Warm. And Peter tries to focus on that instead of the fear clawing its way up his throat. 

He takes a shaky breath. Easier. Then another. 

“Good. That’s good, Pete.” 

He’s okay. 

_Breathe. _

He’s not dead. 

_Breathe. _

Mr Stark is here. 

_Breathe. _

Mr Stark is — wait. 

“How — how are you…here?” Words are difficult. His head feels light, spacey. 

“Your A.I is smart enough to know when to call for help, which is more than I can say for you.” Mr Stark frowns. “A gunshot wound to the head, Parker? You know I have a heart condition, right?” 

“Sorry,” Peter whispers. 

Mr Stark’s expression is unreadable. “Don’t, kid. Just — don’t.” 

The alley goes quiet — almost silent if not for the rasping of Peter’s breathing and the distant sound of approaching sirens that cuts through the night. 

“About time,” Mr Stark grumbles, cocking his head and looking to the mouth of the alleyway. He turns back to Peter. “Alright, bud, we gotta bounce. Think you can stand?” He climbs to his feet, keeping a grip on Peter’s shoulder as he does. Peter nods, taking the arm he’s offered and pulling himself upright, grateful for the steadying hand Mr Stark places on his elbow when his equilibrium shifts and he starts to pitch forward. “Whoa. You good?” 

“Yeah.” Peter blinks. “Yeah, ‘m good. Just… dizzy.” 

“Hmm. Yeah. We need to get you cleaned up so I can take a proper look at that head of yours. Your place is only a few blocks from here, right? Let’s go.” 

The dizziness is instantly washed away by horror. “Nuh — no.” Peter shakes his head emphatically, then stops, because, _ouch. _“No.” 

“Kid, if you think I’m spending another minute standing in this questionable puddle—“ 

“No. I mean — not — not my place,” Peter says, desperately. “I can’t. Not guns. May — she’ll —Mr Stark, _please_.” 

They haven’t had this conversation yet — it’s not something Peter likes to talk about for obvious reasons — but he gets the feeling Mr. Stark knows what he’s getting at, because something in his face softens, and he sighs. 

“Okay. Okay. But only ‘cause you look like you’ve been hanging out in an abattoir right now, and I’m actually a little scared of what your aunt will do to me if I take you home looking like that.” 

Peter breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” 

“The tower’s about ten minutes away. Pretty sure I just did the trip in three, but I don’t think you can handle breaking the sound barrier right now.” He eyes Peter sceptically. “Think you can hang on for that long?” 

“Yeah,” Peter says, hoping it’s the truth; he’s feeling a bit more alert now, but his head still feels fuzzy, like he could still pass out if he’s not careful. He pauses, frowning. “Wait, I thought you sold the tower?” 

“Eh. It’s a work in progress. C’mon.” Mr Stark pulls Peter in close, and Peter ends up kind of wedged under his arm, face pressed against the cool metal of the suit. He loops his own arms around Mr. Stark’s chest, making his palms stick to lock himself in place, just in case. Then he laughs. It escapes him in a short, hysterical kind of burst. 

“What?” 

Peter feels the word rumble through the armour. 

“ ’s this you taking me under your wing?” he murmurs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. 

Mr Stark scoffs. “This is me making sure you don’t fall to your death if you pass out,” he says, but Peter feels the arm tighten around him all the same. “Good to go?” 

“Mmm. Wait, what about them,” Peter says, meaning the guy still webbed to the wall, and the other, laid out flat on the floor, both unconscious. 

“Who do you think the sirens are for, kid?” Mr Stark says, flipping down his faceplate, and then the jets ignite and they’re airborne, leaving the horrors of the alley far below them. 

The frigid night air actually helps clear Peter’s head as they fly. The wind whips around his ears as the twinkling lights of the city spread out below them, growing denser the closer they get to downtown. 

He notices his head has stopped bleeding at some point in the trip, accelerated healing finally kicking in and starting to close up the wound, so by the time Mr Stark has him seated on the edge of the bathtub in the tower, mask pried off gently where the dried blood has stuck the fabric to Peter’s hair, it’s mostly a clean-up job and a few little butterfly bandages to help the process along. 

_Mr Stark was right, though, _Peter thinks as he catches sight of himself in the bathroom mirror; he looks like something straight out of a horror movie — covered in blood and sporting a lovely three-inch gash that runs from his temple to just past his ear. There’s no doubt in his mind that if May had seen him like this she would have put bars on his windows and probably resorted to home-schooling him so he never had to leave the apartment ever again. 

He sits quietly, blinking at the wall of white tiles in front of him as Mr Stark carefully uses a sterile wipe to remove what blood he can from Peter’s hair before placing the bandages along the edges of the wound. Though the man’s touch is gentle, the tension radiating off of him is palpable. He’d taken one look at the wound in the light and his eyes had gone hard, jaw tight. He hasn’t spoken a word since. 

Peter wants to say something — some kind of joke or something to lighten the mood, but nothing comes. The silence and the quiet is unnerving, in eerie contrast to the growing camaraderie and friendly banter that the two of them have tentatively settled into after spending more time together in the wake of the Vulture incident. 

He steals a quick glance at Mr Stark. The man’s expression is drawn. He’s angry, or maybe disappointed, and Peter feels shame flush his cheeks. He failed so spectacularly tonight, needing to be rescued like a child. He’s been trying so hard these past months to prove that he isn’t. That he can handle himself. What kind of hero is he if he can’t even fight off one completely ordinary guy with a gun? 

Now that the dizziness has passed and he’s is fully alert, he’s also fully _aware. _Aware of the fact that he very nearly died – probably _would _have, if Mr Stark had been staying at the compound instead of the tower. 

Peter has had to contend with his own mortality more times than he would have liked in the last year – he’s been buried under a building, shot at, stabbed, put himself in harm’s way countless times, and through it all he pushes on, despite the fear, despite the risk, because he knows it’s worth it, because he knows he’s helping people. 

Before tonight it had never really occurred to him his death could be meaningless 

If he had died in that alley, it wouldn’t have been for the sake of rescuing someone from a burning building, or pushing a kid out of the way of a speeding car, or anything worthwhile at all. He would just be dead. For nothing. 

And he only isn’t because of Mr Stark. 

“I’m going to keep the penthouse,” Mr Stark says as he packs up the med kit and places it back in the little cupboard under the sink. Peter looks up sharply, wondering if his thoughts had been that transparent, or if Mr Stark had just been thinking along the same lines. “No one really wants to buy the place anyway after all the crap that’s happened here. And it’s handy to have a base in the city.” 

_It’s handy to have a place nearby to rescue him when he fucks up, _is what Peter hears. 

He nods absently. “Right.” 

Mr Stark eyes the patch-job he’s just finished once more. “That’s going to have to do for now. It already looks like it’s closing up, though. So with the speed you heal it should be back to normal in a couple of days. You, uh, might have to wear a hat to school in the meantime, though.” 

“Okay,” Peter says robotically. 

Mr. Stark looks weary. His hand slides down over his face. Then he lays it on Peter’s shoulder — gives it a light squeeze. “You should take a shower, kid,” he says gently. “Let me take the suit. I’ll get it cleaned up.” 

_“This isn’t working. I’m __gonna__ need the suit back.”_

Peter looks away. Swallows. Nods again. 

Giving Mr Stark the suit stings just as bad as it had after the ferry, but this time at least Peter can take comfort in the fact that he won’t be going home with the putrid smell of New York’s waterways clinging to his skin. He showers quickly, careful not to get the steri-strips wet, and watches the red water swirl down the drain. 

There’s a pile of clean clothes waiting for him when he exits the bathroom — some of Mr Stark’s old things judging by the faded colours and the softness that can only come from years of being worn and washed repeatedly. He pulls them on quickly, huffing a soft laugh at the MIT logo printed across the front of the t-shirt. _Subtle, Mr Stark. Real subtle._

The amusement flickers and dies as he remembers why he’s wearing it. 

He’s reluctant to face Mr Stark at all, but he knows he has to — if not now, then later — so he takes a deep breath and heads down toward the lab, trying to remember the way from his previous, brief visits. He assumes that’s where Mr Stark will have gone with the suit, and he’s right, although, when he rounds the corner into the workshop, it’s not the suit that Tony is working on — rather a holo-display, covered with open tabs. Peter catches a glimpse of a face on the screen, but little more than that before Mr Stark is clearing the display with a swipe of his hand and turning to face him. 

Heat rushes to Peter’s face. 

“Umm. Hi,” he says from where he is standing in the doorway. 

Mr Stark leans back against the console. His eyes pass over the wound on Peter’s head — it’s definitely halfway to healed already, but Peter knows there’s no denying it looks awful still. 

“Hey, kid.” 

Peter shifts his weight to his other foot, fingers twisting in the bottom of the t-shirt. Mr Stark clears his throat. Peter’s feels tight. 

“I uh — I called your aunt,” Mr Stark says. At Peter’s evident panic, he holds up a hand. “Before you freak on me, all I told her is we were working on the suit and time got away from us. Took a little persuading, but she okayed you crashing here for the night. I figured that was for the best.” 

A guilty sense of relief washes over Peter. He nods. 

“It’s not something I’m planning on making a habit of, by the way — lying to her. I’m not enthusiastic about a repeat of the chewing out I got when she found out about Germany. So this is a one time thing, okay?” Mr Stark says. Then he frowns. “Second… time… thing…. _Anyway_.” He waves a hand. “Exceptional circumstances, understand me?” 

Again, Peter nods. 

“And it doesn’t matter anyway, because you’re going to tell her the truth. Ah-ah, not right away, but this is something she needs to know about, kid. Trust me. For now, though, you have about eight hours to come up with what you’re gonna say when she asks you about” — he gestures towards the ugliness that is Peer’s scalp with a dark grimace — ”that.”

Peter winces. The earlier sense of relief turns to shame. He swallows hard, and when he finds his voice, it’s thin. 

“I’m sorry.”

Mr Stark blinks. “Well, sure. It’s not a bad starting point, but I doubt she’s gonna let you leave it at that. I was thinking something more along the lines of a watered down version of the truth.”

“No, I — Mr Stark, I’m — I’m _sorry_. I know I screwed up.”

For a moment, Mr Stark doesn’t say anything. And then he sighs, hanging his head. “Kid—“

“I understand if you want to take the suit again,” Peter says, throat tight, “but — but I want you to know that I thought about what you said. Before. I _do _want to be better. I’m trying, I am.”

“I don’t want to take the suit, Pete.”

Peter blinks. “You — you don’t?” 

“No.” 

“But… you’re mad at me.” 

“I’m not mad. I’m just…” he trails off, looking away. 

“Disappointed?” Peter says, lightly, but feels his insides twist at the thought. Somehow, he thinks, that would be worse. 

“No,” Mr Stark says, firmly. His eyes lock back on Peter’s, his expression fierce. “No, Peter — I’m not disappointed. Not in you.” 

_Maybe you should be, _Peter thinks.

It’s been eating at him since the man in the alleyway had fired the first shot, since he’d spoken those words, so full of hatred and accusation. 

_This is for Sarah. _

As Spider-man Peter has helped put a slew of bad guys away, and he’s not stupid — he knows there’s got to be no shortage of friends and family members holding grudges over that, or wanting to get even. But he’s had time to think, now, and he doesn’t think that’s what tonight was about. Because for all the anger and hatred in the man’s voice, there had been something else, too — raw, and pained, and something Peter himself is all too familiar with. 

Grief_._

He knows without a doubt that the Sarah the man spoke of is dead. He knows that tonight was a quest for vengeance, for closure that will never come. He knows because he’s been there. 

Dread sits cold and hard in his gut. 

_He was trying to kill _me. 

Peter’s mind keeps spiralling back to the incident with the ferry. Mr Stark had told him everyone was okay afterwards, but the man had gone out of his way more than once to protect Peter from the darker sides of superhero life. Would he have lied about that? Told him it was fine when someone out there was mourning their lost loved one? Peter couldn’t remember hearing anything about fatalities, but he’d been so ashamed about letting down Mr Stark, about worrying May, about losing the suit, that he’d avoided every mention of the ferry, throwing himself headfirst into schoolwork and normality instead. 

“I think,” Peter starts. His stomach churns with anxiety, and he has to take a breath. The words tumble out of him in a rush, spoken before he can decide against it. “I think I might have killed someone.” 

He watches Mr Stark carefully for his reaction. The man stills, looks at him sharply.

“What?” he asks. “Why would you think that?” He seems genuinely surprised, concern drawing his brows together. It gives Peter pause.

“He said—,” Peter swallows. Starts again. “In the alley it — what happened was about revenge. He said it was for Sarah. After the ferry you said no one got hurt, but… did you — were you—?“ he curls his fingers into fists to stop the shaking in his hands.

“No one got hurt, Pete. I wouldn’t keep that from you.” 

Peter’s mind trips over everything that’s happened to him over the last year. “Then… Coney Island…” he chokes out. 

“No. Peter, listen to me, and listen good. I know it’s not always obvious, but I keep pretty good tabs on what you’re doing out there. Hell, I’ve got push notifications for Spider-man mentions on almost every site going, so believe me when I tell you: if something like that had happened, I would know about it.” 

“But—,” Peter starts. 

“No. Listen. Even if something did happen — which it _didn’t_ — what I said before, about it being on you? I was wrong, okay. Sometimes you can do everything right and still fail, still lose people. I let the guilt of that blindside me into making some bad decisions — still do — but if I could pass on one hypocritical nugget, it’s this: it’s an unavoidable part of the job. Learning to live with it… well you have to find your peace. Otherwise it’ll eat you alive. Trust me, I know.” 

Peter knows, too. So many things weigh on him, but maybe… just maybe this doesn’t have to be one of them.

“So, I didn’t…”

A firm shake of the head. “No, Pete. No.”

“Then… why? Why would he…?” 

“Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is he’s done. Finished. That’s a promise.”

But that isn’t all Peter needs to know. He needs to _know_. He _has_ to.

“Mr. Stark… please.”

Tony holds his gaze for a moment, then seems to come to a decision. He sighs. Flicks his wrist, bringing up the screen he’d been working on before, and Peter sees the picture on it clearly now; it is a headshot of the man from the alley — some kind of employee I.D picture, from the looks of it. He’s just a guy — totally ordinary looking — but Peter feels his breath catch all the same. 

“Craig Scott,” Mr Stark announces. “You met him earlier. Charming guy. I took the liberty of doing a little digging while you were getting cleaned up.” 

Peter opens his mouth, but finds that his throat has gone as dry as sandpaper. 

“You heard about 7/15, right?” Another swipe of Tony’s hand and a window pops up on the screen playing footage that Peter recognises from the news. It was months ago now, but he remembers the way May’s face had gone ashen every time the grainy videos had done the rounds, snapshots peppered in-between heated debates on public safety and regulations for enhanced individuals. He remembers the way she’d hugged him tight and begged him to _please be careful out there._

“Yeah,” Peter answers. “That protest in Dallas. A lot of people died.” 

“Right. And our friend’s sister was one of them. Guess he decided the best way to honour her memory was by going on a crusade.” Mr Stark shakes his head. “This was nothing to do with you, kid, okay? Nothing. Just another asshole with a misplaced vendetta.”

Peter doesn’t really know how to react to that. There’s an initial wave of dizzying relief — he didn’t hurt anyone — but it’s quickly washed away by another of queasiness. He didn’t hurt _anyone_. He didn’t _do_ anything at all. And this man had decided he had to die, anyway.

“Hey. You all right?”

Peter blinks. Forces a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Yeah. Yeah, just… I mean, bad guys try and kill me all the time, right? You know how it goes. I get in the way of whatever their bad guy plan is, they get pissed, come after me — it sucks, but I’m I kind of used to it by now.” He shrugs. Feels the pasted-on smile start to slide. “But, um…this…”

“First time someone’s come after you just because you’re you,” Mr Stark finishes, watching Peter carefully. Peter takes a shallow breath. Nods. “I get it, kid. Wish I could say it’ll be the last, and I wish I could say it gets easier. It doesn’t. But this guy is done, okay? FRIDAY’s already linked the gun to a half a dozen unsolved enhanced deaths between here and Dallas, and if that isn’t enough to stick him to the wall then… well, we’ll see how he sticks to the sidewalk instead. Few hundred feet ought to do it.”

It’s said so casually, so nonchalant, that it takes Peter’s brain — still stuck trying to comprehend the fact that this guy murdered _six_ _people_ before his encounter with him today — a moment to register Mr Stark’s words. Another to realise the implication of them.

“Mr Stark,” he says.

“What?”

“That’s — it’s not funny.”

“Who’s joking?”

From his tone, it’s immediately obvious that it isn’t Mr Stark, and Peter feels a coldness seep through his body. That earlier queasiness comes back with a vengeance. His palms feel sweaty.

Peter shouldn’t feel anything but contempt for this Scott guy, this _murderer, _he knows he shouldn’t, and yet…

“Mr Stark, you — you can’t do that.”

Mr Stark arches a brow. “Yeah? And why is that?”

Peter’s mouth snaps shut. _Because it’s against the law? Because you’re Iron Man? Because you’re supposed to be a hero? My hero?_ All the reasons float through Peter’s head and every single one of them sounds childish.

“He —,” he starts, “I mean… his_ sister_ died.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Mr Stark’s expression goes dark —dark in a way Peter has never seen directed towards him before, not even after the ferry. “I don’t give a damn if he lost every single person he ever cared about. He’s a fucking coward, Pete. You hear me? Engineering traps, preying on people just wanting to help? On _you?_ You were about half a centimetre away from losing your brains all over that alley, you do realise that, right? You could have been done. If you didn’t have the reflexes you do, this’d be a different story, and I’d be having a very different conversation with your aunt. So no. He doesn’t get a free pass because his sister died in an _accident_. He deserves whatever’s coming for him.” 

The conviction in Mr Stark’s words takes Peter aback. It shouldn’t — Peter remembers the time he’d watched his childhood hero challenge the world’s most dangerous terrorist on live T.V.; remembers sitting with Ned and watching the grainy LiveLeak footage of Iron Man cutting down those guys in Gulmira without a word, way before his actions were S.H.I.E.L.D or state-sanctioned — but watching through a screen and being face-to-face with it are two different experiences.

Still, Peter has conviction of his own.

“You can’t just… _kill_ him,” he says.

Mr Stark doesn’t reply straight away — simply holds Peter’s gaze, long enough that Peter begins to wilt under the weight of it. Directed towards him or not, Peter can feel the anger radiating off Mr Stark in waves, but when the man finally speaks, it is with an unexpected calmness. A dangerous evenness.

“I should just let it go, then. Is that it?” he asks. “Is that what you would do if it was May?”

It’s a jab straight to Peter’s core, but it’s nothing compared to the next words that leave Mr Stark’s mouth.

“Is that what you did when it was your uncle?”

Peter goes rigid. If his blood ran cold before, now, it turns to ice.

_No_. God, Mr Stark can’t actually…. he can’t _know, _can he?

But all Peter has to do is look at his face to see that he does.

His fingertips tingle. Heat rushes to his face. He can hear his heart beating jack-rabbit fast in his ears, but he can’t respond. Can’t speak. He’s not standing in the lab at the tower anymore; he’s in a boat house, down at the docks, blood on his knuckles and rage in his heart — a rage that slides to fear, horror, and then shame as he realises that he made a mistake, as he realises that the quivering, bloodied man beneath him is not the _right _man.

As he realises what all-consuming grief and hatred had almost made him do.

That night… it’s probably the worst thing Peter has ever done. He wishes he could forget about it. Wishes it had never happened. Wishes he couldn’t perfectly picture the expression that he would see on Ben’s face, disappointed and saddened by the knowledge of what Peter had almost done in his name — how thoroughly he’d betrayed his memory. Mr Stark had once called Peter a friendly neighbourhood Spider-man, and yes, it was meant as a joke, but it’s also the ideal Peter has been striving for every day since that night — since he’d been forced to face a side of himself that terrified him, one he swore he’d never set free again; since he realised the true way to avenge his uncle was not by hunting down the man that killed him, but by living a life that would have made him proud.

“I…” Peter starts, but all that comes out is a croak. There are no excuses. There’s an ache in his throat and he blinks hard and he doesn’t know if he’s angry or sad, or both. Doesn’t know if it’s the reality of what could have happened to him tonight catching up to him, or the throbbing in his skull, or Mr Stark dragging up his most shameful secret, or thinking about Ben, but all of it comes to a head and Peter feels like he’s about one second away from bursting into fucking tears.

And though it mortifies him, Mr Stark must see that too, because in an instant the fire in his eyes extinguishes. He sags, scrubbing a hand over his face with a gently exhaled, “Fuck.” The hand runs over the back of his neck. He lifts his head to look at Peter, guilt written all over his face. “Kid, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Peter shakes his head. “No, you — you’re right,” he chokes out. And then… then it’s like he can’t stop. Words come tumbling out — stuff he’s never even fully admitted to himself spewing from his mouth in an unstoppable torrent. “I was… angry. I was _so_ angry and I wanted to hurt that guy more than anything. I wanted to — to—” He catches the tear that slides down his cheek with a rough swipe of his hand. “I followed him to the docks and into that building and I hit him again and again and again and I just… kept hitting him because I thought it would make me feel better but it _didn’t_, Mr Stark. It didn’t. It was a _mistake_. That’s why you _can’t. _What I almost… what I—”

“Pete—”

“I only stopped because I got it wrong. Because it wasn’t him. If it was… if it had been… if it… if—“

There’s a thick sheen clouding Peter’s eyes, so he doesn’t realise Mr Stark is moving until he is standing right in front of him, hands firmly gripping Peter’s shoulders, gently squeezing.

“You wouldn’t have. Okay? You _wouldn’t_.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” Mr Stark presses. “Want to know how? Because you’re different from guys like Scott.” His face twitches. “Guys like me. Because even though you’re standing there with your head held together by tape, you’re still trying to find the humanity in a guy who lost his six bullets back. You’re already better, kid. Don’t make excuses for people who aren’t.”

“That’s not what I was doing,” Peter says, voice strained. “I just meant — I meant I know what he was feeling. And I get it, he’s a bad dude, but, Mr. Stark, if you go after him, where does it stop? Where does it end? It doesn’t. It just goes on and on forever and ever and I don’t want you to be a part of that. Not because of me. Not—”

“I’m not gonna go after him,” Tony says. “Okay? I’m not. The cops are taking care of it. I shouldn’t have said it. I was just—” he looks away, huffs a humourless laugh. When he turns back to Peter, his eyes are apologetic. “—angry_.” _

Peter feels his heart sink. “Oh,” he says. Of course he was; it’d been obvious since the moment they’d gotten back here, no matter what Mr Stark had said. “I’m sorry.”

Mr Stark gives him a very pointed look. _“Not _at you. At Scott, for going after you. At myself, for clearly fucking up the suit design.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the suit,” Peter says, feeling a surge of defensiveness over what is arguably one of his most valued possessions. Not to mention Karen, who’s gotten him out of too many scrapes to count — tonight included.

Mr Stark touches his index finger very gently to Peter’s temple, just to the side of where the wound starts. “This,” he says, “says otherwise. Should’ve figured someone was going to take a shot at you at some point. I didn’t. That’s on me.”

“It’s not your fault,” Peter insists.

Mr Stark doesn’t answer, just _hmm_s, deliberately not looking at Peter.

“It’s spandex, Mr Stark,” Peter presses. “It was hardly gonna stop a bullet.”

_That_ gets a reaction: Mr Stark looks at Peter, eyes disapproving.

“You know damn well it isn’t, Parker, but the point still stands: I should have built you something that could,” he says. Then, whip-quick, he straightens, eyes focused somewhere over Peter’s head. “I’m going to build you something that could.”

He glances back to Peter, brows drawn together in concern, but eyes bright. “How’re you feeling? Your head hurt? You need to lie down?”

“Uh… I’m… okay?” Peter says. He scrunches his face, wiggles his jaw from side to side just to check. The healing skin above his ear pulls slightly, but it doesn’t really hurt any more, just feels a little tight, the way that healing skin always does. “Yeah, ‘m good.”

“Great. Come on. I want to show you something.”

Mr Stark loops an arm around Peter’s shoulders, and Peter, a little dazed, lets himself be guided across the lab towards a large clear cylinder he doesn’t think he’s seen before. It’s about the right size to fit a person inside, and actually, come to think of it, it kind of reminds Peter of the cryo-tubes people are always getting put into in space movies. But as they draw closer, he can see that it isn’t a person inside, rather tiny metal arms, some as thin as a needle, that are rapidly spinning and weaving and building—

“Is that—” Peter starts, resisting the urge to press his fingertips and face up to the glass. He sees the corner of Mr Stark’s mouth twitch up at his interest.

“A new mask, yeah. We’re scrapping it.”

Peter finches back, eyes going wide with alarm as Mr Stark presses a button on the side and a raging inferno engulfs the half-formed mask, the bright red fabric and bug-eye lenses disappearing beneath the flames in an instant.

“Uh,” Mr Starks says, throwing an apologetic look Peter’s way. “Yeah. Probably should have given you a heads up about that. Anyway… clean slate. Now, building something that’s going to be strong enough to deflect bullets but also retain enough flexibility for you to keep on Cirque du Soliel-ing out there is going to be a challenge, but, well,” He shrugs. Flashes Peter a sideways smirk. “I’m a genius. Now, pay attention. I’m not going to be your tailor forever.”

Peter doesn’t need to be told twice. In fact, he didn’t even need to be told once — this is, without a doubt, the coolest thing he’s ever seen. He watches with keen eyes as Mr Stark’s fingers fly over the unit’s control pad, as he pulls the design _out of the screen _to tweak it in full-size, measuring it against how Peter’s grown since Germany, as he adds so many gadgets and functions to the new design that Peter wonders just how much he’d had yet to discover in his old suit. But none of that, _none_ of it, is half as amazing as _Tony Stark_ asking for Peter’s input.

“Is this real,” Peter murmurs to himself at one point. He doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until Mr Stark snorts softy beside him.

“Do I need to check that head again, kid? Do you know who the president is?”

“Unfortunately,” Peter answers. But the good news is that in all his nerdy excitement, he’d actually forgotten about his head. The reminder drags his mood down a little, but he’s pleasantly surprised to find there is no longer any pain along his scalp, only a small scab when he touches his fingers to it and a little sensitivity.

“Looks good,” Tony says, taking a quick peek himself. “Might have even been premature with suggesting the hat. That healing rate is off the charts.”

Peter feels his mood fall a little more.

“Yeah.”

For all appearances, by tomorrow it’ll be like the whole night never even happened. Peter’s lucky; six other people weren’t. He wonders who they were. What their powers were. How many people are now grieving them.

“What?” Mr Stark says, bumping his shoulder against Peter’s.

“Nothing. Just…” Peter exhales. Says what he should have said all along. “Thank you, Mr Stark.”

Tony looks at him for a moment, then turns back to the slowly-forming suit. He clears his throat.

“Well the cylinder’s doing all the work, you know. I just told it what to put where.”

“I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Tony says, eyes flicking back to Peter’s. “And you don’t need to say it. Not for that. I’ve got your back, kid. Anything, anytime, I mean it.”

His face is completely sincere, but Peter can’t help the little flicker of uncertainty that wells up in his chest.

“Yeah?” he asks, hesitantly.

Tony puts his hand on Peter’s shoulder. Squeezes gently.

“Yeah,” he says.

Then his mouth twists up at the corner.

“Some little smartass once gave me a speech about looking out for the little guy. I guess it stuck with me."

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'm going to stop shooting our boy in the head at some point. Sorry Pete!
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Even if it's just a simple 'Nice' or thumbs up emoji. (Thumbs down will make me cry!!)
> 
> Love you all! Come say hello on tumblr if you want: forensicleaf


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